


five of swords

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Light CBT, M/M, Punishment, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4298943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>defeat is not an option in the eyes of caesar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five of swords

**Author's Note:**

> **tw: to be safe, i have tagged this using the rape/non-con warning. while vulpes enjoys and desires what occurs in this fic, he is not in a position to withhold consent, and therefore he cannot truly give it. take that into account before reading this fic.**

When they return to camp, Aurelius catches his eye and Vulpes knows they must looks as bad as they feel if even he is looking on them with sympathy. He and his men were sent to the north to annex a small tribe on their border who went by the name of Devil Fangs only a week ago. It should have been easy enough--he’d taken less than twenty men--but their warriors had been more skilled than they had planned for. Now, only seven of his men hobble back with him over the mountains.

It takes two full days of walking, but Vulpes holds his head high and proud as he dismisses his men, sending them to rest while he takes the punishment for their failure. It’s part of being a leader--it’s not unlike being a mother. 

He considers for a long moment whether he ought to go back to his tent and change or go to Caesar straight away. On the one hand, his lighter undershorts are dirty and will provide no shield when it came to his unfortunate...defect. But he must not waste time. Caesar’s time is precious, and this is a matter of state. He turns on his heel and tries not to imagine the sting of a whip on his back, the harsh caress of his master’s hand before it comes down to slap him, the stretch of being taken in lieu of lost spoils. He shudders. 

For as long as he can remember, he’s been this way. He has always had an affinity for rules and the upholding thereof, even when it means facing punishment for falling short of them, and that has only been fostered under Caesar’s watch. Vulpes longs in equal measure for punishment and pleasure; for his lord to look upon him with pride and kindness, but to touch him like the conqueror he is, to claim his body like the cruel desert and plumb him to his depths. He doesn’t delight in failure, but he cannot help but long for the punishment that comes with it, partly because he knows he deserves it, knows the only way to be cleansed of his weakness is through pain, and partly because it thrills him to his very core. 

His dick twitches with lazy interest under his shorts. Vulpes has long since his youth learned to keep his face cool and impassive always, and this is not something he is unfamiliar with. His desire is second. He deserves the debasement of being seen like this anyways, he knows. It would serve him right to be ridiculed for going to his punishment willingly and full of lust. He has failed the only man who matters on this earth; a god among them. What’s a few glances from trainees too green to know to fear him? 

The guards let him in with impassive faces, and as soon as he enters Caesar’s court, he kneels. He’s filthy from the battle and travel, and a slash in his shoulder is oozing lazily through his undershirt. He feels Caesar’s eyes on him, but keeps his own gaze down as he speaks. 

“We are defeated, my lord.” He says. Caesar snorts.

“So I hear.” He says. Damn. So the news has preceded him. One of those upstart trainees must have seen him and his diminished troops pulling into the Cove and run to tattle. Caesar glances around the room. Vulpes follows his gaze and feels his cock begin to harden in earnest, interested in the anger, the dominance in Caesar's voice. He colors despite himself.

“Go.” Caesar snaps, and the buzzing flies who long for his favor clear the room, leaving only them and Caesar’s closest circle, men Vulpes has known since he was a boy. “Come.” Caesar motions him forward. Vulpes stands and takes only a step before Caesar arches a brow and raises his hand to halt him. 

“Have these years of training taught you nothing of servitude, frumentarii?” Vulpes understands instantly, dropping back to his knees to crawl across the floor to his master whom he has so grievously failed. Caesar makes a noise of distant satisfaction. Sand is digging into Vulpes’ skin and he’s still straining against his undershorts and crawling isn’t helping, but he must do anything he can to show his master he is obedient. He keeps his eyes on the earthen floor until he reaches Caesar’s boots, flicking his eyes up only long enough to see that his lord is waiting expectantly before he leans down to press his mouth to the dusty leather, first one, and then the other. 

“What a pity that you are such a disappointment to me, Vulpes.” His voice soft enough to be tender. Vulpes doesn’t flinch. Caesar’s hand comes down to brush over his short-cropped hair for a moment, and then the rough, worn palm is on the back of his neck, shoving his face between Caesar's legs violently. Vulpes is so hard that it hurts--his cock is straining against the fabric of his undershorts and beads of precome are dampening the front relentlessly as his master rubs his own half-hard dick against his cheek. 

“You need a lesson in humility.” Caesar spits. Vulpes tries to suppress the shudder of pleasure that zips through him, but he’s pressed so tightly to Caesar that he can do nothing but remain still and hope for mercy. After a moment, Caesar’s hand slips away, but Vulpes knows better than to look up. Instead, he rubs his face between his emperor’s legs, first using the slope of his nose and then his open mouth to bring Caesar to hardness against his cheek. He knows Caesar can feel him trembling with his own arousal, biting back tiny moans with each pleased exhale from his master. 

Vulpes continues his work until Caesar bores of it and snatches his wrists, drawing him upwards into his lap without grace. His nails are short and blunt, but they dig into Vulpes’ skin and he knows they’ll bruise deep purple in the morning. He finds his balance in Caesar’s lap and sits still, eyes down, the picture of submission. 

“My darling Vulpes.” Vulpes swallows, feeling the razor sharp edge in Caesar’s voice with every bone in his body. “My sweet, pretty, _girlish_ Vulpes.” Caesar purrs, hands trailing from Vulpes’ arms to his hips, pulling him harshly so that their bodies are flush together in the throne, “At least if you’d been a girl, you would have been good for something.” He thrusts against Vulpes’ clothed ass to punctuate the idea. Vulpes hisses.

“I’m sorry, my lord.” He says softly, eyes still downcast. Caesar hums an assent. 

“I’m certain. And even if you aren’t, no matter. You will be.” His bruising hold on Vulpes’ hip is gone for a moment; just long enough for Vulpes to wriggle out of his undershorts and push his kilt up and out of the way. One of the slaves produces the squishy innards of an aloe leaf for his master to slick his cock with, and then Caesar is pulling him off balance and pushing the thick, hot length of it inside him and Vulpes clenches his teeth to keep from whimpering at the burning, splitting pain of it. His cock remains steadfastly hard, though, and he can’t help the flush in his cheeks or the way his lips part with a sigh when he’s sheathed inside of him to the hilt. 

“I ought to have you whipped.” Caesar snarls in his ear, snapping his hips violently. Vulpes drops his head forward, gasping for air, his hands steady on the arms of the throne. “But I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, my filthy profligate?” 

Vulpes wants to protest, to give some argument that he is loyal and true and good, but he knows Caesar is smart. He knows that he watches him on those rare occasions he must be punished, or those times when his superiors dress him down. He is certainly not the only one to notice Vulpes has an affinity for the disgraceful. 

“Y--yes, my emperor.” He grits out, focusing on relaxing himself enough that the slide of Caesar inside of him is more bearable. Caesar moves his hands from Vulpes’ hips to his thighs, rocking him steadily in his lap and snorting or snarling every time he wrenches a wail of pleasure from Vulpes’ pinched lips. Their flesh is meeting with such force and speed that Vulpes knows he will be covered in bruises in the morning. He will be unable to sit without wincing for a week. The thought alone sends another violent shiver through him.

Caesar is silent for a moment, instead using his perfect, blessed mouth to leave deep bites over Vulpes’ shoulders, on the sides of his neck, under his ears, anywhere Caesar can get his mouth is a bruise that will last for weeks. Vulpes keeps his mouth shut, desperate to hold in his noises of both pain and pleasure, willing himself to take his punishment without shaming himself further. Caesar has other plans, though. 

“Look at them.” Caesar grips his jaw and pulls his head to the side, making him gaze his inner court who watch them with impassive eyes. Caesar’s voice is low and unbearably hot in his ear. “Look at these stronger, better men. Look at them see you get taken like a woman, to see your shame and _worse_ to see how perverse you are that you enjoy it.” Vulpes doesn’t whimper, but his mouth falls open and he clenches around Caesar’s thick cock and hears his chuckle become a low growl. He bites Vulpes’ ear hard enough to draw blood before he speaks again. “Degenerate whore. Nothing but a failure.” That _does_ pull a desperate, keening moan from Vulpes, his cock bouncing in time with Caesar’s thrusts and his hands bracing him but keeping him from reaching any satisfaction on his end of this delicious, demeaning punishment. 

He’s spread wide open, vulnerable and ravaged before his superiors, and even in this moment he had to revel in his master’s genius. Caesar has sent away his men and even his lower guard, so only those above him and equal to him remained to see this discipline. It is humiliating, but it won’t affect their chances in battle. His men will assume he has been beaten, not conquered, and will respect him the same. Caesar gets to discipline him effectively without it affecting the ranks of his army. His brilliance is as radiant as the sun, his strength as great as the sweltering desert. Vulpes has never been more in love. 

Caesar leans back in the throne and Vulpes follows, his hips continuing the relentless rhythm even as his master has stopped moving, allowing him to fuck himself open on his cock in a room full of men in full armor, his erection straining and dripping pearls of precome that are clear proof of how much he is enjoying this slatternly display. Vulpes drops his head forward again, hoping to hide the shine of pleasure in his eyes, his pink cheeks, the beads of sweat rolling down his neck, but it’s too late. The truth is burned into his every breath, his every move. He is everything Caesar says he is.

Caesar’s hand goes to his hip again, guiding his movements, and then suddenly he’s reaching around and Vulpes has a momentary flash of delight at the hope that his king, his god, his beloved will touch him there, will let him spill over his hand but--

“Fuck!” He hisses in pain, leaning into Caesar reflexively to escape the open palm that has struck him, but he has nowhere to go. Caesar chuckles in his ear and reprimands his language before he does it again, slapping his cock against his stomach, or rapping it with his knuckles under the sensitive head until Vulpes is in tears, still on the very verge of coming, his restrained whimpering turned to full on breathy, gasping moans. 

His voice is shamefully high when he finally yelps and spasms, his cock drooling thick ropes of come as he orgasms. Quickly, his hands fly to catch his mess, desperate to keep it from soiling the rug underneath them. He manages most of it, and Caesar is grabbing his wrist and forcing his hands into his mouth and thrusting into him violently as he licks his own hand clean. With a roar, Caesar tears at his skin and spills inside of him, as wild and vicious as the bull the Legion marches under. For a moment, they’re still, but then Caesar is shoving him to the floor and snarling that he needs to dress himself and get out of his sight.

Vulpes tugs his shorts back on, aware that they will soon be soaked with the remnants of Caesar’s come when it leaks out of him and that he needs to hasten to his own tent if he wants to prevent anyone from seeing. He remains kneeling, leaning forward swiftly to kiss Caesar’s boots once more and to mumble his thanks for Caesar’s mercy.

“Yes, yes, you’re forgiven.” Caesar mutters, waving his hand with bored irritation. “Just get out, Vulpes.” Vulpes stands, moving backwards out of the tent with his head down until Caesar speaks just before he reaches the door. 

“Be certain you don’t fail me again, Vulpes.” Caesar’s smooth, low voice feels like a slap. He drops his head and thumps his chest, retreating swiftly out of the tent and across the camp, chin high and feet steady. He will not fail him.


End file.
